


Repeat Until It's Real

by kremisiusaclassi



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 12:04:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7221631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kremisiusaclassi/pseuds/kremisiusaclassi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes it takes being told the truth more than once for it to feel real.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Repeat Until It's Real

**Author's Note:**

> Dug this up out of one of my old Moleskines, from when someone had mentioned somewhere on tumblr about Deacon having to probably tell the Sole Survivor multiple times his feelings before they really believed him. So this is what came of it - short and sweet.

“Hey, Adalyn,” Deacon said suddenly as they staggered back to the Railroad HQ, dead Brotherhood soldiers littering the ground. His voice was serious, serious as it’d been in the Third Rail, tale of his dead wife weighing the usually buoyant quality of his voice. A voice that she knew told the truth - or tried to.

She turned to him, eyes tired, sweat stinging her wounds, dirt streaking her face, blood in her hair. “Yeah?”

“I love you.” His face was impassive behind his sunglasses.

“Alright,” Adalyn said, not quite understanding. “Sure.”

He made a noise like he was going to say something else, but all attention from the first stumble down the stone steps was on Glory. Glory, bleeding in the dust. Glory, going out in glory, and denying it. Adalyn didn’t know medicine like Carrington, but she could press wounds closed. She could do CPR. Kept Glory alive, kept her breathing, more blood smearing in the blood already on her. 

Glory, Glory.

*

Later, in the Vault-Tec Regional Headquarters, ass-deep in the archives and quiet computer fans still whirring brokenly on reserve power, her head in her hands, shame - regret, grief, guilt - 

“Hey.” A hand on her shoulder. “I love you.”

“Deacon,” she replied, voice slow and heavy. “Stop.”

“Alright.”

*

In a rare moment of sleep, she wakes from a nightmare of dead neighbors, dead vault residents, skeletons in shambling bits of suit, pointing at her, a murmur of, “You helped kill us.”

They’re in the Hotel Rexford, the quiet sounds of Goodneighbor coming up from under the floor. It was never quiet in Goodneighbor.

Deacon, on the couch, seemed to have been woken up by her own nightmare. His voice was gravelly with sleep. “Hey, you alright?”

“Nightmare,” she said shortly. “A bad one.”

Deacon got up, walked over to her. “Scooch over.”

“Gonna kiss it better, Deeks?” She joked, but it sounded flat.

Deacon laughed, nudged her over and laid down beside her, pulled her into his arms. “Could if you let me.”

“Wise guy,” she sighed, already drifting back off to sleep.

“I love you.” It was spoken into her neck, stirred the short hairs there, prickled like realization - and finally, she believed him.


End file.
